Scars (Romola 2)

97: The Real Romola

"Olumide?"

Someone called his name. It sounded so far away. Like the background noise that bled from the radio on the unfortunate mornings spent in his father's office.

He shook his head and tried to focus on the task at hand; kissing Romola. She looked up at him with a smile, lifting her lashes in a sultry way. His heart rammed against his chest dangerously but each beat was a soul thriller.

"Olumide!"

Someone shook his shoulders and his eyes flew open. It was all a dream. Romola wasn't his. Yet.

"You're still here?"

He rose at the sound of Romola's voice, his joints cracking as his body stretched after being in one position for hours. His body ached. Leaning against the wall, his eyelids fluttered as the orange hue of dawn gave way to the brighter light of a sunny morning.

"Did you seriously sit here all night?" She asked.

"I meant what I said. I need us to talk." He stared at her. "Romola, please. Even if it's just a few minutes."

Her eyes strayed towards the opening created by the sinking bungalows in the compound. It was mostly empty, except for a motorcycle in front of one the houses.

She sighed, then held the door of her house open.

He hurried in before she could changed her mind. Entering the house was battle won, convincing her that their relationship was something to salvage was another but he was ready to fight till his last breath for that.

He had stormed back to the pediatrician's room when he had discovered Romola was gone and he had demanded that Yetunde tell him where Romola lived. Yetunde refused to. She swore that she had taken a vow of silence and would not speak until he took her back. He'd told her she would die silent. The nurses had given him Romola's address.

With the first reach of daylight, he could see the interior of the small house better. The living room was half the size of his hotel room. There were a couple of worn and patched couches gathered together around a greying old stand that belonged to an inexistent television. There was no light from the right side of the room where he could see a row of doors. The only other source of light, other than the main entryway, was the other half of the living room from which light seeped through worn old dull thin curtains and from which he made out the outline of the window of another house.

Romola's house was cramped and seemed to have a musty smoky smell. Something buzzed past his ear. He tried to smack it and ended up slapping his cheeks. The itch on his right cheek worsened as he scratched it.

Romola smacked his hand. "Don't you know you are not supposed to itch? It'll make it worse."

As she said it, the upper part of his left hand itched. He rubbed it with his right hand.

Romola grabbed his arm and pulled up his shirt. "Olumide, look at your hand."

He didn't need to look down to know that there were red spots on his hand. It was on his foot too and anywhere else that had been exposed to the onslaught of mosquitoes. They had nearly chased him from her door.

"And on your face too?" Romola held his jaw and turned his face left and right inspecting it. "Why didn't you go home?"

"I am not going anywhere till we speak."

She dropped her hand and frowned. "You could have waited in your car."

"It broke down somewhere. But I don't want to talk about my car." He took her hand and sat down on the chair, pulling her closer.